


The Caillebotte

by wysiwygot, Zigster



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 19th Century French Art, Ariadne living her best life, Art History, Arthur lusting after French art, Bourgeois AF, Champagne, Doppelganger, Fluffy, French, Gustave Caillebotte, M/M, Paris - Freeform, René Caillebotte, blame it on the painting, conspicuous consumption, impressionism, started out as crackfic and now we're here, the abuse of an antique red chair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 14:46:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17920850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wysiwygot/pseuds/wysiwygot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/pseuds/Zigster
Summary: “This painting!” Ari was genuinely stunned. “It looks just like ...”She turned around to look at him with an eyebrow cocked. He looked back at her without expression, innocently shrugging his shoulders. “Like what?”“Come on,” she frowned.“What?”“It looks like E—”Arthur cut her off, anticipating the rest of her statement. “Nope.”. . .A story in which Arthur buys a chair, then a painting, makes a life for himself in Paris, and realizes his deeply repressed feelings, all while being encouraged and continually taunted by Ariadne and her many French girlfriends.





	The Caillebotte

**Author's Note:**

> We saw a painting. We both were like, waaaaaait a second. We lost our minds. The end.
> 
> Many thanks to Queuebird for the beta read!

 

 

 

A Young Man at His Window   
Gustave Caillebotte - 1875

. . .

* * *

 

“I need a waistcoat,” Ariadne said, apropos of nothing. “For a thing. Can I borrow one?”

 “What sort of _thing_? A thing with paint?” Arthur asked, looking up from one of his dense French cookbooks.

 “No, a date _thing_.”

 “A date. Okay. A date where you’re painting? Like one of those dates where you drink wine and … paint?”

 “What’s with the paint? What do you think lesbians do on dates? We’re going to a play.” Ari shrugged. “I want to look nice.”

 Arthur held up his hands, relenting. “You can borrow one, but just … don’t get anything on it.”

 Ariadne hopped off her barstool, a small squeak of joy escaping her as she ran toward Arthur’s bedroom, her chestnut hair bouncing behind her.

 Ariadne had been inside Arthur’s bedroom before but had never set foot within the inner sanctum of his dressing room. Which was huge— cavernous. She had always assumed it was a second bedroom frivolously turned into a walk-in closet, but it turned out to be larger than her entire bedroom and study combined. Beautiful built-in wardrobes and bureaus lined one wall; clothing racks punctuated with mysterious garment bags that revealed nothing of their contents lined the other; between them sat a lit display case of watches and cufflinks. Near the spotless cubbies that held his footwear, each pair of shoes in cedar containers with a Polaroid affixed to the outside, sat an old chair with red, tufted upholstery.

 And, on the far wall, a large oil painting.

 

—

 

He’d found the chair first. Before he’d even rented a flat in Paris, before he even considered relocating to a country filled with such caloric temptations as brie, bread, and Burgundy. It had caught his eye in a tiny boutique window, the strange, faded coloring of the red velvet glowing in the afternoon light like the rind of a blood orange left forgotten on a plate.

The bell chimed above the door of the small shop before he’d even realized he had crossed the pavement to pull on the brass handle. Behind a marble-top counter an ancient woman raised her gray head, eyes twinkling.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour, madame. La chaise m’intéresse. Combien?”

“Ah!” The woman perked up, rounding the counter and coming over to pat the tufted cushion of the chair in question with a loving hand. “C’est tres vieux.”

“Oui.”

“Will you be paying in cash or credit, mon cher?”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head at the old woman’s sudden flip to English. Everyone spoke English in Paris.

An hour later, Arthur sat at a rickety table outside a café with a double espresso cooling next to him, typing away at his laptop balanced across his legs. In the last ten minutes, he’d found three (somewhat) affordable apartments for let in The Marais, emailed two estate agents, and ordered a glass of the house red in celebration when an agent immediately responded to his inquiry in the affirmative. He sent off one more note to Cobb before shutting down his laptop and sitting back to enjoy the sunset staining the white domes of the Sacré-Cœur red in the dying Parisian light. All in all, for Arthur, it had been a rather pleasant day.

 

—

 

Arthur watched as Ariadne took in his dressing room, squirming uncomfortably as she thumbed through the rack that held his dress shirts. She took out one out—a rich blue-black broadcloth, the only shirt that could cross the blue suit/black suit barrier successfully—and whistled. “This is hot ...”

“Thanks, hey, can you—” He was about to tell her to make sure the collars were all facing the correct way when she hung it back up but she interrupted him.

“—for a funeral,” she finished, baiting him. “Or goth night?”

Arthur took the opportunity to remove his Jaeger-LeCoultre watch and place it carefully between two other Blancpains that looked alarmingly similar to the casual observer, but were in fact subtly different.

“Wow. I knew you were a clothes horse, but this is intense,” she exhaled. “So, what’s in these wardrobe bags? Is there, like, a waistcoat …”  

Ari’s eyes scanned the room and when she came to the painting, she did a visible double take. Her question trailed off into an afterthought: “... Section? Wait. Arthur.”

“What?”

“Arthur. Oh my god.” She’d completely abandoned pawing his dress shirt and handed it to him without looking, moving toward the far end of the room. Her eyes were glued to the Caillebotte.

“What?”

“This painting—that’s what!” Ari was genuinely stunned. “It looks just like ...”

She turned around to look at him with an eyebrow cocked. He looked back at her without expression, innocently shrugging his shoulders. “Like what?”

“Come on,” she frowned.

“What?”

“It looks like E—”

Arthur cut her off, anticipating the rest of her statement. “Nope.”

“Eam—” Ari tried to talk over him, but once again he thwarted her.

“You think? I don’t see it.” He squinted his eyes and cocked his head, much to Ari’s aggravation.

“It looks _exactly like Eames_!” she barked. “EXACTLY.”

Arthur shook his head dismissively. “It really doesn’t.” He moved toward the garment bag that held a suit with a waistcoat that he knew for a fact had a deeper cut on the V, which would probably work for Ari’s purposes.

 She didn’t care. She wasn’t listening. “This is a painting of Eames. Arthur …. did you have this _made_?”

Falsely accused, Arthur was aghast, and blurted, “Oh my god, what? No! It’s from the 19th century, you goofball.” He busied himself with the zipper on the garment bag, studiously ignoring Ari and the only art hanging in the room.

Looking over his shoulder, Arthur saw Ariadne still gawking. He huffily put himself between her and the piece of priceless artwork he had spent a large portion of his Fischer job payout on.

“Will. You. Stop?”

“Nope.”

“Look,” he said, holding up a decade-old, bespoke waistcoat a size too small for him, with a rose satin back and a cinch belt made of leather. It was perfect for her. He stroked the supple fabric. “Look at the shiny. The precious.”

Ariadne shoved the hanger aside and pointed to the painting. “You have it top-lit with a fucking museum light, Arthur. I’m pretty sure the same one is hanging over the Mona Lisa in the Louvre.”

Arthur scoffed. “I got _that_ off Amazon.”

“The shoulders, though,” Ariadne continued, ignoring him. “That slouch.”

“Pink satin. Vintage.”

“That’s how he stands.”

“Leatheerrrrr,” Arthur purred.

“The neck. Look at the neck!”

“Yes, look at the neck _line_. Deep. Plunging. Won’t ... who are you seeing this week? Gabrielle?”

“Jules.”

“Right.”

“Focus, Arthur. Seriously. I mean, look at the shape of his damn head!” She was practically shouting at this point, and a vein in her head was pulsating.

“There is nothing similar about it. The hair is ... I don’t even know? A mop, at best. Eames doesn’t even have a beard. That man—whose name is René, by the way—clearly has a beard.”

At this, Ariadne threw her head back and laughed.

“What?” Arthur frowned at her.

“You’re so whipped,” she said, extracting her phone from her back pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving a point.”

“What—”

The phone started chirping with the mechanical sound that signified a FaceTime call in progress. Arthur’s eyes widened. _She wouldn’t dare!_

Apparently, she would. Two rings later, Eames’ face filled the phone’s screen. “Ari?”

She didn’t even bother saying hello. Instead, she smirked at him, turned the phone toward Arthur and said. “See?”

Arthur did see. His stomach dropped.

Ari’s face glowed with triumph. “That’s right. A beard. Full. Bushy. Surprisingly blond. Bye, Eames.” She rang off just as Eames started inquiring as to why he’d been woken from a sound sleep, but the phone was safely back in her jeans pocket by then.

Arthur folded his arms across his chest. “I still don’t see it. You’re clearly suffering some sort of mental breakdown. Shall I get you some tea?”

“Ha! _I’m_ the crazy one? You have a painting of our forger in your closet. Where you get dressed. And undressed. Daily! I don’t even ...” She trailed off, shaking her head at him.

“Look. Do you want the vest or not?”

“I do. Thanks.”

She ripped the hanger from his hands, took one last look at the painting, the red-tufted chair positioned beneath it, and Arthur before sighing like a disappointed parent and leaving the dressing room.

“We need wine!” she called as she walked back to the open front room of his flat. Despite Arthur’s anger, Ari was right. He took three minutes to set things back to rights after her invasion, flicked off the lights and followed her to the kitchen.

There were two full glasses of red waiting on the counter.

 

—

 

“So, do you just stand in front of it, like in that posture? Like what’s his name? Renard.”

“René.”

“Yeah, him. Do you stand in your dressing room, in that same pose? Looking at it like it’s a window?” Ari swallowed her snicker by taking a gulp of wine. “I had no idea you were so into … you know.”

Arthur poured himself more wine. “Into what?”

“Impressionism? … Art?”

“Gustave Caillebotte—”

“That’s the artist?”

Arthur glared at the interruption. “Yes.”

“‘Kay.” Ari saluted him with her wine, allowing him to continue.

“He was an impressionist, yes, but he’s more widely associated with realism. The ‘evocations of photographic naturalism,’ to be exact.”

Ari snorted into her glass. “Who _are_ you right now?”

“You asked!”

“I know.” She giggled.

Arthur plucked the wine bottle out of Ariadne’s reach and placed it on the countertop behind him. “You’re cut off.”

“Hey!”

“You opened a vintage. Be glad I didn't deck you.”

“How am I supposed to know what’s expensive or not? I go by what the bottle looks like.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“So, where’d you get it?”

“The wine?”

Ariadne rolled her eyes. “No. The painting.”

 

—

 

The red-tufted chair in the boutique window may have been the reason Arthur decided on Paris in the first place, but the painting was why he stayed. The old woman who’d sold him the chair also told him of the auction for the painting, and subsequently, the chair’s unique provenance: the Caillebotte’s family townhouse in Paris on Rue de Miromesnil. Arthur had been charmed by the idea—that the catalyst which had spurred him into creating a life in Paris had also been a part of its history, if only in a very niche, bourgeois way.

He headed to the auction on a sunny afternoon, dressed in a custom three-piece suit and his favorite pair of Bolvaint brogues. He wanted to evoke an air of class and distinction, despite feeling rather out of his depth. He’d never gone to an auction before, let alone one hawking fine French artworks.

The lot number for the painting was 528—Gustave Caillebotte’s: _Young Man at His Window_.  Arthur had yet to see the painting, though he’d recognized the name of the artist from a day he’d spent perusing the collections at Musée d'Orsay. He remembered being very pleased with the sight of muscled young men on display in a piece titled _The Floor Scrapers._ Taking into consideration Caillebotte’s level of history and celebrity in not only France but the art world at large, he didn’t think he’d actually bid on the piece up for auction. He simply wanted to go witness the spectacle.

The moment the rotating wall of the auction house turned to reveal the painting in question, Arthur’s throat tightened, his mouth having gone completely dry. He was raising his paddle into the air—coincidentally also numbered 528—before he even knew what he was doing. It was as if he’d been possessed. Once seen, he could not take his eyes off the evocative image of the oddly anachronistic stance of the man at the window. He didn’t hear the final number, the only sound he took in was the auctioneer’s shout of “ _vendu!_ ” as he pointed his gavel at Arthur, a congratulatory smile appearing under his curled mustache.

The afternoon went by in a blur. By the end of the evening, all he could remember was shaking hands with a lot of distinguished looking men in very fine suits and women with perfectly coiffed hair, and writing out a check for an obscene amount of money to the auction house.

He woke up the next morning in a daze, chasing to hold onto the vague memories of a dream from the night before. He didn’t think he was still capable of dreaming, and yet, he had: flashes of a dark suit, a Paris street, the red chair, all drifting away with each second he tried to capture them in his mind’s eye for further contemplation.

Rubbing his face and pulling himself to the kitchen for a bracing cup of coffee was his only immediate thought once he’d given up on rescuing the dream from his stubborn subconscious. He needed coffee, first and foremost, and then he’d go over his much-depleted bank accounts.

 

—

 

“Why the beard?”

“What?” Ariadne, asked, looking up from her daily perusal of Le Monde. A Vespa whizzed by, ruffling the paper in her hands. She frowned at the retreating bike and straightened the pages. They were sitting at the café around the corner from Arthur’s flat, sharing morning pastries.

“The beard. It’s inexplicable.” Arthur frowned down at his espresso, looking all the world like a petulant child who’d been denied ice cream.

“Really, Arthur. That was last week. How are you still—”

“He never goes more than three days without shaving, Ari. It’s fact.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Excuse me?” He rounded his glare on her.

“He grows it out after every job. He only shaves it again when he’s hired for a new one. How did you, Arthur—knower of all things—not know that?”

Arthur shrugged, defiant. “Clearly, I’m losing my touch.”

“Well, we all knew that.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“‘Course you were,” Ari said, patting his knee.

“Va te faire foutre,” Arthur hissed.  

“I will. Thanks. I’m hoping this evening, actually.”

“Jules again?”

“Nope.”

“Gabrielle?”

“Marta,” Ari sighed and flipped the page, her eyes going soft.

“It’s like you’re running a harem. Where do you keep them all?”

Ariadne shrugged. “A lady never tells.”

Arthur made a sound similar to _pfft_ —but much more dignified for a Tuesday morning while drinking espresso. They sat in silence after that, Ariadne contemplating her paper while Arthur gazed off into the distance, valiantly attempting to not think of Eames with a full beard.

He failed.

As he dressed for drinks that evening with an old friend of Mal’s, whom he’d met while at the Sorbonne, he couldn’t help but glance at the painting dominating the back wall. He fiddled with his phone in his pocket. Eames had picked up on the second ring, he’d sounded like he’d been fast asleep—Southeast Asia, perhaps?

If his internet history showed several searches for flights to Thailand and Cambodia later that evening, it was in no way at all related to his earlier musings.

 

—

 

Three martinis later—two at the bistro, one concocted at home to confirm that the vermouth in the back of the fridge hadn’t gone off—Arthur sat in the chair to survey the painting. He tried to look at it with fresh eyes. Eyes that hadn’t already fallen in love with the damn thing, had it appraised and verified, documented, bid on it, _got into a bidding war over it_ , written the check, registered it as part of a private collection, had it professionally transported across three arrondissements, _service de gants blancs_ , and subsequently hung it himself with the utmost care.

New eyes. Never seen it before.

Arthur tilted his head, assessing. That silhouette _did_ sort of look like Eames. His odd power stance, hands in his coat pockets. That subtle slouch when he was deep in thought and believed himself to be unobserved. Even that hair—that mop, as he’d referred to it. Even _that_ had some similarity, after all. The tuft of hair that was sticking up, mainly.

The cowlick was like a secret that Eames kept to himself, or tried to. Arthur hadn’t ever seen Eames without product in his hair—probably something archaic like Brylcreem to slick down any errant strays. But all the product in the world couldn’t keep a bad cowlick down, and Arthur had spied it here and there: after the removal of a hat indoors, waking up disheveled after a deep kick, and once after an uncharacteristically playful tussle with Cobb. Each time, Eames rushed to smooth that bit of hair down, almost unconsciously.

Yet there it was, on René Caillebotte. Unbothered, rumpled, relaxed René Caillebotte.

Arthur liked to imagine that the scene itself served as a window in an otherwise windowless room, but he never once inserted himself into the painting as the man looking out. He was the observer of the observer. He was watching the figure watching … what? The woman? The carriage? The light on the cobblestones? There was a pervasive sense of longing in every detail, from the street sign and curl of wrought-iron railings to the clouds and chimneys in the distance. But there was also the somewhat meta feeling that the longing didn’t belong solely to the rendered observer, to René—it also belonged to the painter, as well as the viewer of the painting itself.

What the painted man was watching wasn’t as interesting to Arthur as his act of watching itself.

Arthur sipped the last dregs of his martini and placed the empty glass on the woven Turkish rug beneath him. He slouched down in the tufted chair, resigned to the melancholy turn the evening had taken.

He finally allowed himself to accept that he’d come to a rather terrifying conclusion which would require days, if not weeks, of self-reflection. Arthur had fallen in love with the painting because it had reminded him, on some deep, three-levels-down subconscious plane, of Eames. Arthur had fallen in love with and purchased the painting because he was in love with Eames.

“Fuck.”

 

—

 

Arthur committed to hosting Ari and her plus-one for a digestif after an “immersive dinner theatre experience.” He’d successfully argued his way out of being their third wheel to the event itself, but Ari insisted that he have her and Gabrielle—no, wait, Marta!—over for craft cocktails and something from the patisserie across the street.

She’d bring back his waistcoat, too. After one final outing, at which no paint was going to be involved. The experience wasn’t  _literally_ immersive, Ari promised.

Figurative immersion, then. Whatever. No stains. That was the deal.

His phone alerted him to a text, right after he finished setting out the ingredients needed to make two varieties of cocktails (a Lion’s Tail, if Marta liked whiskey; an Aviation, if she preferred gin) that would pair well with raspberry puit d’amour.

Ariadne. Had to be. He wiped his fingers on a crisp linen tea towel, because that’s what those are for, and swiped into the text to read it. It was Ari’s fault that he couldn’t receive texts with preview on anymore after she’d cheekily sent him a barrage of images from the Louvre—all of marble asses.

“GUESS WHAT?”

Arthur frowned at the phone for a moment and texted back, “You’re not coming?”

Of course she was going to flake. Puit d’amour didn’t really keep, is the thing. They’d be chewy by the morning. He was going to have to finish them off himself. Paris was wreaking havoc on his waistline.

“I am!!! but 3 of us OK?

“Who else,” he shot back via text. If she was springing a blind date on him, he was going to kill her. Or maybe she was bringing along another member of the harem. She wouldn’t. Would she? Not to his house. Flaunting an impending ménage à trois in his face when he’d graciously offered to host the nightcap to top off her evening’s activities would be gross, as he’d never been more pathetic or more single in his life.

He looked down at his phone’s screen again. An angel emoji could really mean anything in this sense. She was bringing an angel over? Or, she _was_ an angel? Maybe she was being angelic by giving him advance warning—but it was still fucking rude.

Then, “Here. Buzz us in.”

That bitch had texted from outside his building. How was he supposed to prepare for the worst if she hadn’t allowed him even a full minute to panic properly?

Arthur poured himself a liberal shot of gin.

After a knock sounded at the door, he quickly, stealthily went to look out the peephole. He had to know. Please, please, Ari: not another rando theatre dude who would tell him his French sounded Canadian, and then act like that wasn’t an insult.

The peephole was covered.

“Bitch,” he hissed.

On the other side of the door, Ari’s voice sang out, “Billy goat, billy goat, let me in—”

Another female voice, unfamiliar, “I think it is ... pigs? Isn’t it pigs?”

“Ssssh,” Ari hushed her. “No, there’s something about the _hair_ on my _chinny-chin_ —”

Arthur jerked open the door before she could finish with the final “chin.” Oh no. No fucking way. She didn’t.

There was Ari, quickly withdrawing her hand as if she hadn’t just been covering the peephole in his door. Next to her, a woman who could only be Marta, as described by Ari in great detail after their first, third, and seventh dates (and subsequent fuckings).

Behind them both, standing smugly with his hands in his jacket pockets, was Eames. Eames with a significant beard—and a great, big, crooked grin right in the middle of it.

Ari crowed, “Surprise!!!”

 

—

 

It was painfully clear that Eames had never been within the hallowed walls of Arthur’s Paris flat before because the bastard was touching _everything_. Poking about with curious fingers and shuffling to and fro, taking in every little detail as if he were casing the joint for future thievery.

Arthur watched him out of the corner of his eye as he put on some music. “I’m going to throttle you, so help me god,” he muttered, turning his glare toward Ari.

She finished taking a sip of her splendid Aviation and shoved Arthur playfully on the shoulder. “Hush!”

“What iz’ee going to throttle?” Marta asked, running her finger around the rim of her cocktail glass.

“Nothing, babe.” Ari squeezed Marta’s knee, and Marta giggled and squirmed at the touch.

Arthur, while happy for his friend, felt nauseated by the perfectly joyous display of amorous affection and turned, taking his cynical heart and tumbler of gin with him. Behind him, he heard the distinct pop of a champagne bottle.

“This calls for something bubbly,” Eames announced, much to the enjoyment of the girls.

“Where did you get that?” Arthur asked, scandalized at the bottle’s sudden appearance.

“I brought it. Naturally.”

Ari piped up from her seat on the chaise. “Oh yes, it’s good you did. Never tamper with Arthur’s _vintages_. He’ll spank you for it.”

“I have never—“ Arthur attempted to say but Eames cut him off, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Oh, really?” He raised an eyebrow in Arthur’s direction.

Ari and Marta laughed. Arthur groaned.

Eames didn’t let the moment linger. He turned back to the freshly opened bottle, lifting it up in invitation to the room at large. “Who’s joining?”

“Bring it,” Ari said, holding her empty glass aloft, only for it to be swiftly snatched away by Arthur. “What are we celebrating?”

“My first and only invitation to Arthur’s flat, obviously,” Eames replied, giving Arthur a pointed look.

Arthur heaved a theatrical sigh of the put-upon host, even as he pivoted towards the glassware. “Yeah, about that ...”

In short order, the bubbly was poured and the glasses were full. Arthur, gallantly, waved off his pour so Eames could fill his coupe first. Eames cocked his head slightly but demurred.

“To our host, then!” Marta cheersed. “Tchin-tchin.”

Ari burst into giggles, clinking her glass against Marta’s. “NO! Tchinny-tchin-tchin!”

“Ouais, les cochons,” Marta agreed, and everyone drank. Arthur took a generous gulp, Eames a conservative sip.

“Oh, wait! This reminds me of a funny story. Arthur, jesus, sit down. You’re looming. You’re going to love this,” Ari said, patting his arm fondly. “When I was a kid, I read something about how the ideal size and shape for a woman’s breast was a champagne glass.”

“Marie Antoinette,” Eames and Marta blurted, in perfect unison. Surprised and amused, they again clinked glasses.

Arthur grimaced at them toasting themselves. They were going to chip the crystal. And besides: “That’s actually bullshit—”

Ari talked over what was certainly going to be a correction. “Yeah, yeah, thank you. ANYWAY. So, a woman’s breast, and champagne, right? Except!” Ari held her finger up, pontificating to her rapt audience of mostly Marta. “Except ... I had only ever seen champagne served in flutes!”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle. He knew where this was headed, even if Marta and Eames—going by the looks on their faces—didn’t.

“So, I was like, that can’t be right. Long, tubular breasts?” Ari demonstrated by holding both hands against her chest, pointing down with her index fingers. “Ideal?”

“Non! Eet’s …” Marta very sincerely held up her champagne, which was in a breast-like coupe. Eames broke up in a wheezing laugh, finally getting it.

Ariadne wiggled her index fingers at Marta. “Yeah, I know, chere. That’s the joke.” Marta lowered her glass, smiling an awkward sort of smile. Ari, taking pity on her, asked, “Arthur, is there any coffee?”

“Of course there is.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. He didn’t move, as he was too busy wondering why his glass was empty.

“I think she’s asking you to make some for her and her lovely date, Arthur,” Eames whispered, leaning over the back of the couch Arthur was perched on.

Arthur turned to glare at him. “Her name is _Marta_.”

Marta hummed, head dipping in a slow nod of agreement. Arthur sighed at the sight and stood, figuring that, yes, coffee was very much needed. He headed to the kitchen to fill the kettle and Eames followed.

“Yes?”

“Oh, just wanted a bit of a chat. Haven’t seen much of you as of late.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Eames tsk’d at him. “Shame.”  

Arthur rolled his eyes, flicking a match to ignite his small two-burner stove.

“You don’t have an electric kettle?” Eames was peering across the marble-top counter, eyes searching.

“No.”

“How American of you.”

“I’m—” Arthur stopped scooping out espresso grounds into the glass carafe to brace both hands on the worktop. He counted down from ten in his head. “I’m just old-fashioned, okay?”

“Yes,” Eames agreed, touching a finger to the side of his nose. “And practical. Don’t you worry, pet. I’ll get you a proper kettle one day.”

“I don’t want—. Nevermind.”

Eames beamed, clearly taking Arthur’s resignation as a triumph. Arthur let him, entirely too exhausted to attempt refusal. Eames continued to make a study of Arthur as he finished setting up the French press and collected four cups from a hutch behind him.

“Coming?” Arthur asked. Eames remained slouched against the counter.

“Actually, where’s your loo?”

Arthur nodded over his shoulder. “It’s in the bedroom. The door’s open.”

 

—

 

“You should have come with us, though. It was cool,” Ari chided lightly. “But at least Eames stepped up to take the extra ticket so I wasn’t out the 60 euro.”

Arthur pushed the rest of the pastries toward the girls and sat back in the chair across from them. He didn’t realize she’d bought him a ticket to the immersive thing. He felt shitty about it, despite her not seeming bothered in the slightest. “Ah, I didn’t—” he started to apologize but changed the subject instead. “I’m glad that Eames went. Did he … like it?” Arthur could only imagine that he _would_ like something like that. Immersive forgery was his whole deal.

Ari shrugged and straightened up, looking around the flat like she’d just remembered a fourth person was supposed to be with them. “Where is he, anyway?”

It had been a while. Arthur hadn’t noticed, as he was too busy being a perfect host.

“Eaaaaaames!” Ari howled, throwing her head back dramatically. Marta, finally sobering up, shushed her at the same time that Arthur sat bolt upright in his chair with a glare at the noise. People hollering across his flat was unacceptable. You either waited politely for the other party’s return, or you went to the room in which the person was situated and spoke to them in a civil tone. No shouting.

Eames didn’t yell back in reply, which surprised and pleased Arthur, but instead materialized in the dim doorway between the bedroom and the sitting room.

“Yes? I am here,” he replied calmly, glancing quickly at Arthur with a perplexed expression before turning his head to address Ari. “Did you think I’d gone?” Without waiting for a response, Eames lowered his voice and added an aside to her alone, “I just—actually, might I grab you for a moment? About the …”

Eames’s statement trailed off as he looked at Ari pointedly. Ari froze and looked back at him blankly. They traded looks for a second, and then Ari begrudgingly heaved herself off the sofa and followed Eames toward the small kitchen.

Arthur immediately caught Marta’s eyes and quickly tried to engage her in a conversation, in a flailing attempt to cover for their rudeness.

Shortly after, while Marta was in the middle of assuring him that she did, in fact, know of at least two other immersive theatre groups in Paris, one of which that was vastly superior to the company they had seen that evening, Arthur succumbed to the urge to twist around to spy on the creeps in his kitchen. Eames and Ari were whispering in the corner by the fridge, but Arthur couldn’t quite catch what they were saying.

Nodding along to Marta’s increasingly detailed description of the setting—a character note that Arthur realized made her very well suited to Ariadne, the architect—Arthur was surprised when a small hand landed on his shoulder.

Ari leaned down and interrupted Marta gently. “Sorry to bust in during the recap, but I think we’re ready to jet. Marta? Are you good to go?”

She was. Arthur stood up to see them all out, as per his hosting duties, but when he reached for Eames’ coat on the rack, Ari shook her head with a sly smile. “Nope, we’re ditching the third wheel with you, mon ami.”

“Third wheel?”

Eames, leaning against the fridge, smacked his lips and shrugged. “I’ve volunteered to help you with the washing up. You’re welcome.”

Three out of the four people in the room shot a volley of looks from one to the other. The fourth, dear Marta, broke the nervous tension by saying, “Oh, genial! Je deteste nettoyer.”

“It’s true, she does,” Ari smirked. She threw a quick salute at Eames and tossed an airy kiss in the general direction of Arthur’s ear, and then the girls were out the door.

With a heavy sigh at the realization that he’d just been saddled with a strangely reserved and uncharacteristically thoughtful Eames for no reason other than they didn’t know what to do with him, Arthur set about clearing the dirty glasses from around the room. How four people went through so many glasses was a mystery.  
  
“Ah, not this one, darling,” Eames said, quickly snatching a half-full coupe of champagne—presumably his—away from the counter before Arthur could clear it. “There’s a bit more in the bottle. Would you like to have a glass?”

“I’ve had more than enough, but thanks.” Arthur glowered, turning away from Eames in favor of starting the dishes. What was he supposed to talk about with Eames? His beard? Work? Immersive theatre experiences?

He started washing and realized he’d forgotten the dessert plates. “Actually, if you wouldn’t mind getting the dishes from—”

“On it, yes,” Eames said, amiably. “And I will flip the record.”

The sound of music playing alerted Arthur to the order in which Eames fulfilled his duties, but after a full minute passed without the dessert plates materializing next to him, Arthur grew curious as to what the hold-up was. He was probably reading the liner notes, preparing to challenge Arthur with some miscellaneous fact about mid-century exotica.

When he turned to look, though, there was no Eames in the sitting area. The music was playing but the plates were still undisturbed on the coffee table.

What the hell? Where was he? How did he keep disappearing like that? And why?

A surge of paranoia spiked through him. His flat was not large: living room, kitchen, bedroom, bath ... closet. Arthur froze. Setting down the coupe he’d been cleaning on the counter, he forced himself to remain calm, turned, and headed straight for the bedroom. He stepped lightly through the door, assessing every surface, looking for anything that could have possibly been disturbed by Eames’ roaming fingers. Alas, everything seemed to be in its proper place.

Everything except for Eames.

The bathroom was empty. Some small part of Arthur knew it would be. He swallowed his pride and slowly stepped toward the walk-in closet, following the stream of golden light that spilled across the floor from where the door had been left ajar. Silently, he slinked along the floorboards and slipped through the sliver of open door, forcing himself to remain calm as he accepted the inevitable.

Looking over at the far wall, his breath caught in his throat.

Eames was standing there, amongst all of Arthur’s most precious things—his feet set wide, hands in his pockets, shoulders in that telltale hunch of deep thought, staring at the man mirroring his posture in the painting. Seeing them both, side by side, was as if Arthur had fallen victim to a paradox within a dream. Instead of observing René observing the world, as Arthur usually did, he was suddenly witnessing Eames viewing himself through the looking glass.

Arthur blinked, his fingers finding the die in his pocket and holding it tight until each corner dug rivets into his skin. When he gasped at the slight shock of pain, Eames turned at the sound.

Arthur was caught, silhouetted by the light of the doorway. He rubbed at his neck, a mixture of embarrassment, annoyance, and vulnerability playing over his face.

“I never knew,” Eames mused, his voice small, almost as if he were divulging a secret.

Arthur swallowed. “Knew what?”

Eames didn’t respond, instead he walked forward and braced Arthur by both shoulders, crowding him up against a row of perfectly pressed and hung button-downs, smiling when Arthur attempted a glance over his shoulder, worried about creased sleeves and disheveled collars. Eames stepped in closer, caging him.

“What are you doing, Eames?”

“Clearly, I’m dreaming.”

“This is no dream of mine.”

Eames lifted an eyebrow and gestured at the painting with a nod of his head.

“Shut up,” Arthur spat, looking off to the side.

“I didn’t say anything, darling.”

“I hate when you call me that.”

“I really don’t think you do.”

Arthur huffed and pressed hard against Eames’ shoulders. He was an immovable force, to be sure, but Arthur was no damsel, he’d resort to evasive tactics if necessary. Eames stepped back, but brought Arthur with him, leading him by a belt loop to the red tufted chair in the corner, now angled toward the painting.

“Tell me a story, Arthur. About the painting.”

Arthur’s mouth went dry and he attempted levity. “What is this? Bedtime?”

“If you want it to be.”

“Shut up.”

“Gladly.” Eames pressed a single finger against Arthur’s shoulder and pushed. Arthur allowed himself to fall backward onto the chair, glaring up at Eames the entire time.

It was in the next moment that Arthur truly did question reality, because Eames took one look over his shoulder, smirking at the painting, and then sank to his knees. His hands came to rest on Arthur’s thighs, the heat from his fingers searing through the crisp twill fabric. Arthur’s muscles bunched beneath them, and his entire body went rigid at the touch.

“Shhhhh,” Eames soothed.

Arthur froze, trapped somewhere between terror and an inexplicable need to push, to see where this was heading. The only part of his body that moved was his chest as he breathed in deep lungfuls of air. He remained silent. He couldn’t look away. He didn’t want to.

“Tell me, Arthur. Do you sit here, like this, and stare at that man?”

Arthur, after a long pause, nodded.

“Do you think of me when you sit here? While you look?”

Eames was running his hands up and down Arthur’s thighs slowly, clearly not requiring an answer. Every muscle was kneaded into submission at his touch, his thumbs skirting closer to the inseams of Arthur’s trousers with each pass. He didn’t know whether he should look at Eames’ hands, his eyes, or the painting on the wall. He was too busy contemplating how this evening had ended up like this.  

“Look at it now, Arthur,” Eames said, guessing at Arthur’s indecision. He glared down at him, hating himself for being so transparent. Eames merely smiled, playing at coy while his hands made quick work of Arthur’s belt and trouser zip. “Lift,” he instructed.

 _Oh god._ Arthur helplessly obeyed, canting his hips upward.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Eames murmured, looking up at Arthur, practically awestruck.

Arthur’s hand came down hard on Eames’ wrist, just as he’d been about to touch the blatant erection tenting Arthur’s briefs. They stared at each other for a beat. Two. Three. Arthur’s chest heaving, Eames waiting.

“Is this a game?”

Eames blinked, his head tilting. “No. What do you mean?”

“Don’t play me, Eames.” His mouth spoke it like a threat, but his eyes were soft, pleading.

“I wouldn’t. Not you. Never you, Arthur.” His voice was sincere, his expression clear of mischief. Arthur believed him, so help him, he even trusted him. Slowly, Arthur loosened his grip on Eames’ wrist, his entire body relaxing into the soft cushion of the chair, legs adjusting, stretching outward to cage Eames within the V of this thighs.

“Well then,” Arthur said, lolling his head on the chairback. He raised an eyebrow at Eames, the invitation clear. The momentary shock on Eames’ face did not escape Arthur’s notice. He smiled when Eames finally indulged him and leaned forward to nose along the outline of a very promising erection encased within Arthur’s too-tight underwear.

Hot breath came a moment later, as Eames opened his mouth, teasing at the fabric with a wet tongue. Arthur arched up off the chair, straining in his want to move things forward now that he’d given in to whatever insanity he’d opened the door to. He wanted more. He wanted it all.

“Fuck,” he grunted, looking down, shoving at his own clothes to free himself.

“So impatient,” Eames murmured as he licked a stripe across the sharp line from Arthur’s hip.

“Five years.”

Eames closed his eyes, head resting on the dark, soft hairs of Arthur’s thigh. “I know.” He said it with reverence, almost sadness. Arthur couldn’t stand the emotion behind those two small words. He carded his fingers through the hair at Eames’ temples, pulling to lift his head, and stared down at him with determination.

“So fucking suck me already.”

“God, yes.”

Eames’ hand squeezed tight at Arthur’s hip as he dipped his head to finally, finally touch his mouth to Arthur’s overheated skin. Arthur sighed, the sensation familiar and yet wholly new to him. This was Eames, on his knees, for Arthur. Teasing him with that god-damned mouth of his, treating him like a delicacy that he wanted to savor. His head fell back, the sight of Eames’ head moving up and down—lapping and licking and darting sharp-eyed glances up at him, as if he were enjoying this almost as much as Arthur—was overwhelming. Eames swallowed him whole and Arthur nearly howled at the tickle of facial hair against him, his hips bucking forward eagerly into Eames’ warm, wicked mouth.

This was about to be the world’s shortest blowjob, it appeared. Almost as if he sensed that fact, Eames looked up then, smirking around his task, and abruptly slid off, coming to rest on his knees, smug and proud. Arthur watched him go, a little bereft, wondering what would happen next. His eyes caught sight of Eames’ lap, the fly of his pants open, the lack of underwear, and the sight of a rather impressively thick cock sitting proudly within the tight grasp of his own hand.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur breathed, unable to look away. Eames had been working himself as he’d been sucking Arthur. The combination sent a barrage of sparks flying across Arthur’s synapses. “Fuck.”

“You like to look,” Eames said, taunting him with a dark, heavy-lidded stare that whipped right through Arthur’s skin like a chill. “So look.”

The effect of seeing Eames, backlit by the warm light above the painting, in front of the Caillebotte, was dizzying. It was like a funhouse hall of mirrors, except the mirrors weren’t all facing the same way or reflecting the same image. And at the center of it all was Eames, biting at his plump lower lip, sitting back on his heels, stroking his cock while keeping his eyes fixed to Arthur’s. The only way it could get any better would be if he were naked.

Eames nodded at him, his eyes briefly flickering down to Arthur’s still-wet dick straining into the air helplessly. “Go on, then. I also like to look.”

Once he stopped having an out-of-body experience and moored himself back into the reality of the red chair, Arthur was relieved to oblige, enthusiastically moving one hand to his own cock and the other between his legs to knead and pull at his balls. Arthur could see the faint glint of Eames’ eyes looking directly at his lap.

“Did she tell you?”

Eames arched an eyebrow at the question but he didn’t stop the smooth movement of his fingers over his cock. He quickly, indulgently, replied, “Tell me what?”

“Did Ari…” Arthur was momentarily distracted at the sight before him. “Fuck.” He shook his head and tried again. “Did she tell you about the painting?”

A slow smile spread across Eames’ face and he shook his head. “No. She said there was something at your place I had to see, but … no.”

Arthur nodded, the embarrassment of being caught red-handed, as well as being the last one to know something about himself, was diminishing. How could it not? He’d been lacking something for years and now here it was, kneeling in front of him with its cock out and a smile on its face. “I want—”

Eames sat up on his knees and moved closer to Arthur, eagerly responding to what he must assume was Arthur’s plea to take him in his mouth again.

“No, I want ...” Instead of finishing his statement, he reached one hand out to tug at Eames’ shirt sleeve.

Without comment, Eames pulled both his shirt and his undershirt off over his head. It wasn’t until he was gracelessly trying to take his trousers off while kneeling—not yet getting to the problem of what to do with his pant legs with his shoes still on—that Arthur noticed the stubborn cowlick at the back of Eames’ head. It had been jarred loose, into its full, twisted, adorable glory, when Eames had torn off his shirts.

 _Oh fuck,_ Arthur realized with a shiver, watching Eames attempting to undress himself. _We’re going to fuck. We haven’t even kissed and we’re going to fuck._

“Sod it,” Eames snarled, petulantly sitting his ass down on the carpet so he could wrestle his shoes and socks and trousers off. All the while, his cock was bobbling along merrily, unbowed. Arthur observed that too, his own cock also unbowed. He was amused and somehow bolstered by Eames’ ungainly shuffling.

“God, come back here,” Arthur laughed, reaching his hand toward a chagrined Eames out of pity.

With one orange sock and one brown leather shoe still on, trousers and underwear bunched down around the same ankle, Eames got back onto his knees and wedged himself once again between Arthur’s legs. Eames brushed Arthur’s hands away from his lap and took the matter into his own, eager hands.

The tickle of Eames’ mustache and beard was brief before his lips closed around his cock, and Arthur sank back into the sensation. Afraid that the sight of him might bring the whole thing to an early curtain, Arthur closed his eyes in pleasure and ungrounded abandonment as Eames sucked him down. Deep enough that Arthur was fairly sure he could feel the top of Eames’ throat swallowing the tip. His toes curled against the Turkish rug and he moaned. It was brilliant.

 _Fuck it._ Arthur wanted to watch. He willed his eyes open to see what he already felt: Eames sucking his cock with such relish and force that he was actually jostling the chair, Arthur could feel it being pushed back farther with each downward stroke of Eames’ sinful mouth. He draped one long leg over Eames’ shoulder and dug his heel into his back, steadying them as he anchored his vision on the painting, just beyond Eames’ bobbing head.

The stance. The precision. The light on the columns. That thick neck.

 _Oh god_ , he was about to come. _So close._

“Eames—” He placed his hands to either side of Eames’ head in warning.

Eames ignored Arthur’s sense of proper bedroom etiquette, and emitted a dismissive, mouth-full rumble in reply. He grabbed ahold of Arthur’s narrow hips, pulling him even closer. He was on him. Relentless. Arthur could hear the chair creak beneath them, straining under the onslaught of Eames’ mouth.

“Eames ... fuck!” Arthur’s eyes closed of their own accord at one final, deep-throated swallow executed with perfect timing as Eames tugged on Arthur’s balls, one finger slipping back to press invasive and perfect against Arthur’s hole. Arthur cried out, his entire body jerking forward in the chair, collapsing over Eames’ shoulders and holding on for dear life as Eames took every drop that Arthur gave him, milking him until the feeling was too much, the sensations too strong.

“Eames,” he panted, attempting to push his shoulders away, but instead, Arthur’s hands landed in his tousled hair, stroking back the stubborn strands, mussing them further. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He was rung out and orgasm-high, leaning heavily on the man resting his head in his lap.

“Fuck me, that was incredible,” Eames whispered against the sweaty skin of Arthur’s thigh. Arthur nodded. He couldn’t help but agree. He actually felt drunk.

“Wait,” Arthur said, a few minutes later, once he’d gotten his breathing back under control and the strong urge to fall asleep had abated. Arthur slumped back in the chair with Eames still resting his head indulgently on his leg, his hands stroking Eames’ hair.

“Wait,” he repeated. “Did you finish?” Arthur was momentarily mortified at being so selfish before Eames raised his head, his eyes alight with mischief and post-coital joy.

“Of course, I did, darling.”

“How?”

Eames raised up one clever hand and twiddled his fingers at Arthur, with a crooked grin spreading across his impossibly smug face. “Needs must, dear.”

Arthur shoved him, though there was no force behind it. “You’re the fucking worst,” he sighed.

“I know,” Eames said, snuggling back down into the warmth of Arthur’s thighs, still smiling. “The feeling is mutual, darling.”

Arthur couldn’t help his grin, knowing Eames wouldn’t see. He petted his head, feeling how soft Eames’ hair was, drinking in the sight of all that raw strength lying in perfect, blissful supplication at his feet. Arthur could really grow used to such a thing.

But, if Eames had gotten even a single drop of come on his precious chair, he was going to murder him.

 

—

 

Taking pity on the chair, and wanting to prevent any further desecration to his closet, Arthur dragged a heavy-footed Eames to the bathroom for a bit of a wash and then to the bed, where he promptly fell face first into the pillows and grumbled happily about 800-thread-count sheets and having “a quick kip.” Arthur rolled his eyes at the ridiculous man, who was still wearing an orange sock on one foot.

Cleaning crusted French pastry off of antique china wasn’t much of a chore for Arthur that evening. And if he indulged himself by whistling along to an old Jacques Dutronc record while scrubbing, no one would be the wiser.

Eames’ “quick kip” turned into a bit more than that, considering Arthur woke up to a possessive, ink-covered arm slung across his torso, as if Arthur were Eames’ own personal body pillow. He sighed into the warm sheets and attempted to shift away, only to feel the tickle of a beard nuzzling along his spine.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.”

A soft kiss pressed against the base of Arthur’s neck. Their first, Arthur realized. He felt Eames smile into his skin a moment later.

“I’m very comfortable,” Eames murmured, his voice rough from sleep.

“Thank you. I paid a fortune for this mattress.”

Eames nodded. “Only the best for our Arthur.”

“Damn right.”

“So modest, too.”

“Shut up or leave.”

Eames buried his head into the pillows and squeezed Arthur round the middle. For once, he was blissfully quiet. Arthur was too amazed to comment.

 

—

 

Three hours later, Arthur sat with his legs crossed at his favorite corner café, La Monde in hand, waiting for his daily caffeine fix. Eames had ordered _un café crème_ , the indulgent bastard, and was happily nibbling away at a bit of day-old bread that he would, no doubt, soon dip into his proffered cup.

“This is rather lovely, isn’t it?”

“Your accent is extra English this morning, Eames—are you trying to impress me?”

“Always, dear.”

Eames leaned over and pressed his lips to Arthur’s pulse point, just under his jaw. Arthur was startled by the public display but soon gave into the sensation. This was Paris, after all. Who would care? He turned his head to catch those perfect lips with his own, placing a single finger under Eames’ chin to pull him closer. Eames hummed, low and sweet, like a man who was enjoying a rather decadent dessert.

The scrape of the waiter’s bootheels coming to a halt at their table forced their reluctant retreat, leaving them staring at each other’s mouths with mirrored longing. Arthur was in awe. They should have spent more time kissing in his dressing room. It was a mistake he wouldn’t let happen again.

Arthur scowled at Eames sitting smugly back in his seat, and kicked the heel of his shoe, causing Eames to jump in his chair. He laughed and shifted closer to Arthur, patting him on his knee as if to say, _well played_. Arthur nodded, satisfied.

They sipped their coffees, sharing a comfortable moment of silence in the early summertime breeze. Tourists were milling about, looking into shop windows, and locals strolled past, heads buried in their phones, dogs waddling along before them.

“So,” Eames said, his voice low, intimate. “Tell me about it.”

Arthur looked away from the charming Parisian scene surrounding them to regard Eames with a curious smile. Suddenly, everything felt right, like Arthur belonged there. Like Eames belonged there with him. Like this was the most normal thing in the world, drinking coffee and enjoying an easy rapport. Like the last five years had all been part of an ongoing conversation that was just starting to get interesting. With that in mind, he replied, “About what?”

“About the painting. The Caillebotte.”

Arthur paused for a moment, thinking. Then he licked his lips, put the paper down, and began.

  
  
_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading! Do please show us some love in the comments. Especially if you’d like to see these boys (and girls) dressed in full 18th-century powdered-wig grandeur. Perhaps an ‘immersive theatre’ experience in the form of a Versailles ball? Arthur and Eames in satin knickers, finding a dark corner to perhaps do dark deeds in?


End file.
